Streets Paved With Red
by sasstasticmad
Summary: Jim Moriarty prides himself on being different, on being better, even when he's a teenage boy with big eyes and bigger ambitions. Follow him on his journey as he grows into becoming the "Napoleon of Crime."
1. Chapter One

At 13, Jim spends most of his summer at a rundown movie theatre he can no longer remember the name of, forgetting it in favor of something relevant. The movies themselves aren't particularly that spectacular, for the most part it's old children's movies that nobody ever seemed to care about but he still goes. It's something to do in the lull between the few hours of sleep his body forces him to have and the drunken ramblings of Aileen. He sits in the back of the theatre, the rumbling of an antiquated cooling system puttering near him as he focuses his eyes on the audience, learning their quirks. It's harder than analyzing classmates but much more rewarding. None of his peers, (he smirks when he thinks this, none of them are anything close to his contemporaries), already resigned to a lifetime of dullness, are old enough to be doing anything worthwhile.

He's always hated summers, it's a season of decay and while he has no problem with death, never has; it makes him think of Gershwin. He hates Gershwin, the lone clarinet blaring out a hopeful song, the promise of love and romance, and the sheer sentimentality of it all. It's so quaint and American and spineless. He doesn't need somebody to watch over him, thank you very much. Never has and never will.

But at least in the movie theatre he can forget just how much the season repels him, he can hide in a chair and drink from a soda that he charmed from the unfortunate girl at the snack counter (Eliza, Age 15, Overweight with spots, Terrified of spiders) and just gaze.

During a showing of "Gone With The Wind", (and god help him, he does love Scarlett O'Hara, how honest she is with herself, the way she preens like a peacock) there are only three other people in the theatre. This is of course not out of the ordinary, most people have better things to do on Saturday nights, they aren't in such an awful state as he is, but only two of them are of any actual interest as the third is an elderly man with a jowly face who wears a sweater and seems to be crying unapologetically at the sheer spectacle of the film. It's pathetic

No, the other two people are much more fun to watch. He recognizes the first from school, rather, _a _school, as he never does stay anywhere too long, and places a name to the dull milquetoast looking face. The boy's name is Carl and what he lacks in intelligence and practicality, he makes up for in awkward physicality. Jim notices, with a sensation that could easily be deemed as envy, his adolescent lankiness, the way his long legs seem to unfurl on the stickiness of the floor, the awkward reach of his arm on the other person's shoulder. Jim can tell that Carl's grown tanner since he last saw him, he remembers the fists being more of an ecru, the smattering of bruises that sometimes arose after being on the receiving end of a blow.

The other person is a girl. He doesn't know her, doesn't care to. Girls are boring and insipid; they live on dreams and pride themselves on subservience. Not that Jim doesn't dream, he always remembers his, the shadows of a gun, and the fountains of blood at grand parties he hasn't been invited to yet, but that's different. His dreams mean something. But right now, the girl, clearly reveling in the attentions of the rare species of Neanderthal known as Carl Powers, moves the boy's hand down to the front of her blouse, looking at him with a glaze in her cow eyes, mewling almost like a kitten when Carl gets the general idea and begins groping in earnest.

He spends the rest of the movie watching them with dark eyes, expression blank as if they were just the walls of his bedroom. It's more so out of perverse curiosity than any real enjoyment. Besides, Scarlett is now spending her time pining for Ashley, which is really quite dreadful. Ashley is so dull, so _boring_, and Jim thinks to himself that he might as well, it's not like he can complain or Eliza, poor dull Eliza will want the same thing to happen to her.

Once the movie is done, he takes his typical route home, hands folded with a slump into the pockets of too-tight jeans, fingers tapping against his thigh. Nobody takes heed of him, nobody ever does, but he peers around anyway taking it all in. Four people he passes are having affairs and one particularly unlucky old woman, her vision hampered by cataracts and time, smells of death. He expects an obituary reading " Gormless Old Biddy" any day now. He passes by the same deli every night and every night, he imagines going in and stealing a bottle and getting well and pissed. But he doesn't, Aileen drinks and he sees how it makes her stupid, the way she slurs her words, accent thicker, expression duller. And she used to be _so _beautiful, like Snow White in that animated movie she had taken him to see when he was very small, back when he had called her mummy.

Later, when he's lying fully clothed on top of the bed, tapping his fingers on the now dull cotton, he hears Aileen stumble into the hall. One of these days she's going to crack her head open on the stairs and leave a trail of alcohol laden blood on the concrete, but for now, she sticks to singing Kate Bush in that warbling voice of hers, "Heathcliff," she moans, "It's me Cathy, I'm so cooold, let me into your window."

His life would be better if his mother were some romantic heroine, doomed to wander the heath. At the very least, he would be endowed with immeasurable wealth and be living on a manor somewhere with plenty of livestock there for him to tear open. He hasn't dissected anything in ages and his fingers twitch out of fond remembrance at the idea, eager to tear into something, anything, just something to remind himself of what he could do, what he has done.

But she isn't a ghost or a fainting maiden, she's a slowly fading alcoholic and as much as it pains him to admit it, Jim does have a certain fondness for her. It's like she is some childhood cat and he's fairly certain that one day he will find her curled up in a shriveled heap underneath the radiator.

It'll be easier that way. He's not looking forward to putting her down.

* * *

He's almost relieved when break is over and it's time to head back to the horrid confinements of the classroom. It's been a while since he's actually learned anything of note from a teacher but it's still nice to be able to sink into a well-worn chair, put on a uniform jacket, and just think and plan and do.

Mr. Murray, the maths instructor, is the only one who cherishes his intellect, giving him extra problems and marveling at his mind. He doesn't mind the singular attention, revels in it actually, but sometimes he thinks it is a shame. If the masses appreciate dull-witted athletes, you think they would take the time to appreciate the genius standing in front of them. It's probably better this way, hiding in the shadows, being able to observe without fear of some ignorant little girl telling on Jim for doing something truly incredible.

But for the most part, the days go on just as they had during the summer, a blur with no importance, the dull roar of apathy threatening to tear Jim apart as he plays nice. He nearly explodes in biology when they are told to dissect a fetal pig. The girl he's been assigned to work with (Hannah, divorcing parents, bulimic tendencies) can't stomach the thought of harming any living creature so he's left to his own devices, the knife steady in his hand and he slices the pig open, holds it's heart in his hand, and thinks just how right it feels.

Every once in a while, some little shit decides it'll be great fun to toss Jim about and he stumbles home covered in bruises and cuts. He never cries, hasn't in ages, probably couldn't if he tried, but instead silently seethes as he washes his face in the mirror. He always remembers the names, the faces of the other boys looming above him, the taunts of "Freak" ringing in his ears.

After one such attack, he dreams of dissection in the biology lab, the heart in his hand belongs to Carl Powers, the boy from the movies, the boy who ripped a hole in his uniform. Carl lies on the floor, blood pouring out, calling, " Jim, please fix me, please," but his cries halt as he sinks into the cool tile of the floor, hands reached towards Jim who for some reason or another is wearing a crown made of balloons.

When his dream ends, just as he's having a cup of tea with an otter, Jim opens his eyes and lets out a grin that's all pointed teeth and thinly masked cruelty.

He's going to kill Carl Powers and he knows, he can just feel that it's going to be wonderful.


	2. Chapter Two

Jim can't decide how to do it.

He wants to be there when it happens, wants to carve Carl up like a roast, serve his head on a platter, and let dogs feast on his bones. But he knows that can't happen.

Carl's got at least half a foot on him and knows how to use it to his advantage. The only way he'd ever be able to gut him properly is if he snuck into his bedroom like some clichéd television robber and even that leaves too much to chance. It feels too much like some weird version of a fairy tale; it has none of the finesse he needs.

So he lets the ideas fester, bouncing around in his mind. It has to be perfect otherwise it won't feel right. But even with the self-imposed pressure, it's sort of a relief to have a purpose, to have something to fill the days. Better than school at least, at least he's getting something out practical out of it.

"Who's Carl Powers?"

And in an instant, he's pulled out of his own private revelry. Jim looks up from his notebook to see his "partner", Hannah, he recalls, looking down at him, lab goggles slightly askew, wispy hair falling into her eyes.

"I have no idea," he replies, all grin and flash, thinking how the fuck does she know about Carl. He's been careful not to really talk to anyone since his epiphany the other night. He's not stupid. If he were partnered with a mind reader for the past three weeks, now would be a good time to know. She might come in useful then.

"You've written his name all over the lab sheet," she replies, eyes dropping to the paper, which oddly enough does have Carl's name written all over it, scrawled all over like some ancient hieroglyphic code. She raises her eyebrows, a knowing look on her too-thin face. " Someone's got a crush."

There are a number of ways Jim can reply to this and they all race through his mind at once. "It's none of your business," he snarls and annoyingly enough, she just smirks.

"No need to be so bitchy " she says, " You're not exactly being shy about it."

"Do you kiss your mum with that mouth," he asks, voice a slow drawl. "I mean, I'm surprised she lets you get close enough with vomit on your breath."

Whatever was left of a smirk is wiped off of her face and she pales immediately, her hand moving subtly towards her mouth, worn down fingernails scratching a little against her chin.

"To be fair though," he adds, taking a moment to look up at her with a smirk. It's so goddamn hard being menacing when your target is taller than you, but he can try. "She doesn't let your dad either, so I guess you have company."

"I don't know where you heard those things, " Hannah stammers out softly, apparently under the delusion that someone other than herself gives a shit about her family, "but they aren't true."

Jim doesn't answer, it's not necessary, just goes back to scribbling in his notebook, smirk still on his face. Ordinary people can't handle silences. They fill voids with mindless chatter, a numbing presence to cope with the fact that they are boring and that they can't be alone, but no, they can't handle silences. It scares them, and right now, it's scaring Hannah, or as Jim has freshly dubbed her "Skeletor." He can't even see her right now, doesn't want to look, he hasn't got time for ugly things, but she's still looming over him, watching. He can feel her eyes on him as if she's waiting for him to snap.

The bell rings a short while later and as Skeletor leaves, she turns to him, eyes full of hatred and what seems to look like pity. "You need some pills or something," she says, looking down at him. "Go to a doctor. See if he can make it so you're not as much of a freak."

"It's a shame you can't do the same, sweetheart," he replies, voice light, "guess you're always going to be mummy's little butterball."

Her cheeks redden as she finally heads for the door. He considers it a minor success.

* * *

Jim still can't think of how to get rid of Carl so for the time being he settles for antagonizing Skeletor. It's not much of a challenge, he never thought it'd be but it's always fun annoying someone. After all, boys will be boys.

It doesn't take much, the occasional coupon for a brand new weight loss drug, questions about what she thinks her mum's new boyfriend is up to, but his crowning achievement comes on the last day of their partnership.

He slices through the neck of the pig they have been working on for the past few weeks. He grabs the head in his hand, coughing loudly so the entire class turns their heads, and begins his masterpiece, gazing with an almost paternal fondness at the pig's empty face.

"Alas, poor Hannah! I knew her well," he begins, his voice nearly a shout. Of course he feels just the slightest guilt at misquoting Shakespeare, but it's not like any of his classmates would get it if he mentioned some bloke named Horatio. However, the connection between a dead pig and another one of their peers seems to be accessible to them, if the amount of sly looks towards Skeletor and muffled giggles seem to be any indication.

"Although if I am going to be perfectly honest, you are much more attractive than the real Hannah," he says, poking the pig's nose with his free hand like it was a naughty puppy or toddler before looking over his shoulder to see Hannah's eyes welling up with tears. He turns back to the pig and adds " far fewer pimples."

It isn't his best material, but regardless, Hannah storms out of the lab as fast as she can, nearly running over the hapless boy working on his own experiment by the door. He, along with everyone else, can hear her crying in the hall.

Not bad for a Tuesday

* * *

Of course, the momentary high that comes from crushing someone's self esteem only lasts so long. He really does need to get the whole Carl dilemma sorted out; he hates having things left on his to-do list.

He spends the next Friday night following Carl Powers as he goes out with what appears to be a girlfriend. It's not the same one as the movie theatre. This one is prettier than her predecessor, mouth painted an unnatural shade of red along with full breasts and curly blonde hair, a fitting trophy of the apple of the school's eye, precious Carl with his precious ability to swim faster than some other idiots.

The two end up going for dinner at a fairly cheap cafe, the girl laughing too loudly at jokes that Jim is sure can't be that funny. People like Carl don't have personalities; they talk with their bodies. They don't need to think, so they don't.

He sits at his own seat at the counter, ordering only black coffee to the disapproval of the old woman who seems to be in charge. She gives an exasperated click each time she refills it, hinting not so subtlety that they also serve sandwiches. After a fifth painfully unsubtle grunt, he finally looks up at her with the look he has privately dubbed as "Puppy face" and tells her that he was waiting for a girl who must have stood him up.

"Guess she doesn't like me after all,' he nearly whimpers and he feels disgusting about acting so pathetic, but it gets the job done. The woman immediately softens, calling him dearie and replacing his now cold coffee with a steaming mug of hot cocoa piled with whipped cream, eyes gleaming with pity and what seems to be an all-consuming desire to read into other people's business.

The cocoa is decent enough so he plays into the woman's expectations, making up some half-assed story about a crush that he's nursed over the course of a few years, painting the picture of some fairy princess who, in the words of his new "friend", "doesn't deserve a sweet young boy like you, dearie."

From his perch at the counter, he can see Carl and his date heading out of the door, the girl walking with what seems to either be a deliberate wiggle or a very unfortunate physical tick. Carl soon follows, eyes moving appreciatively to her ass, pausing a second to roll up the sleeve of his sweater and vigorously scratch the skin of his wrist, revealing what looks to be an incredibly disgusting rash.

Jim's thoughts immediately fall into the snide petty category he doesn't always allow himself to access, momentarily taking pride in his own pale disgusting rash-free skin, but he recognizes the type of rash. It's not like Carl's been swimming through poison oak, it's eczema, fairly well hidden from the general public, but eczema nonetheless.

He's got to be taking medication for it, Jim reasons, it's not like his smug little face is covered in rashes.

And with that, a plan is hatched.


End file.
